Couch
by clair beaubien
Summary: After a mission gone bad, Mickey falls asleep on McCall's couch. Ch 2: McCall arranges a phone call between Mickey & Nick.
1. Chapter 1

Thursday morning was a wet, drizzly affair, with no sun and no hint of sun in the low, gray, overhanging clouds. Sitting in his car at the airport, Robert watched people dash through the raindrops, vainly trying not to get wet. His parking place afforded him a broad view of the automatic doors he expected Mickey to appear through; he was coming in today after a seven week mission in Honduras. The mission had either gone remarkably bad or been remarkably taxing; Kostmayer's brief call from the airport in Dallas, waiting for his connecting flight, had only been long enough to ask McCall the favor of a ride home once he landed in New York. Even speaking that short sentence had seemed to test the limits of Mickey's strength, and there was none of the usual levity and spirit in his voice as there was when things went well.

McCall's suspicions were in no way allayed when he saw his friend come out of the airport. Mickey Kostmayer, the man who was known to wear sweaters into early June, stood beneath the dripping overhang wearing a thin denim jacket over his t-shirt and jeans, with his small duffel bag dragged by his side as though he didn't have the strength to carry it. He lifted his chin in recognition when he saw McCall's car pulling up to the curb in front of him but he didn't offer a smile. McCall popped the trunk and Mickey dropped his duffel in and slammed it shut again, then dropped himself into the passenger seat.

"Thanks for coming to get me." The words were practically a sigh as he leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

"What else would I have to do on such a lovely November day?" Robert asked, joking, but Mickey didn't answer. He kept his eyes closed and his head back until Robert, mindful of Mickey's spare attire, turned up the heat and directed the vents towards him. Then he lifted his head and blinked somewhat in surprise.

"Oh – thanks. It's a little colder than I've been used to." Then he resumed his former position. Robert let him rest and didn't pursue any questioning. He knew Mickey would talk when he felt like it, and if he didn't feel like it, no one, not even Robert McCall could pry information out of him.

Robert pulled out of the airport and headed for home.

Mickey felt himself dozing in the car as they left the airport. It was the first time in weeks he'd been able to relax and not pay attention to what was going on around him. Honduras had turned to hell and he didn't want to have to think about it right now. Eventually, in the next day or so, he'd have to debrief with Control, but right now he didn't have to think about it. McCall might wonder but he wouldn't ask, so maybe the uproar in his head would quiet down so he could get some rest.

McCall parked a few spaces down from his front door. He regarded the pale look and dark circles now evident on Mickey's face, before tapping his arm.

"Come on now, we're here. Let's get you inside."

Mickey lifted his head and blinked a few times until he saw where they were.

"McCall – why am I at _your_ place?"

"Because you've been gone seven weeks which means there is nothing fit to eat at your house and God knows when you last had a decent meal. Bringing you here now eliminates any extra trip one or the other of us would have to make later on to remedy that situation."

"Oh." Mickey answered as he pushed himself out of the car. "You could've just said, 'lunch'."

He followed McCall up the steps and into the building. Waiting for him to open the door to his apartment, Mickey leaned his head back against the wall.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"I slept on the plane from Dallas. It was either that or watch Top Gun. _Again_."

"And what of the plane trip _to_ Dallas?" McCall asked. He knew it wouldn't have been a commercial airliner that spirited Mickey out of Honduras.

"Ever been on a Tilt-A-Whirl?"

"Oh, lovely." He opened the door and let them both into the apartment. "Then before I do anything else, I'm sure you could use some aspirin for your head."

"And Compazine if you've got any."

Mickey sat on the sofa while McCall got him the aspirin and a glass of water. He seemed flushed so while Mickey drank the water, McCall felt his forehead.

"You're worse than Nick." Mickey grumbled, but – McCall noted – he didn't move away. "I'm just warm from the heater in the car."

"You're probably right; nevertheless, I think you should lie down. Let me take your jacket; I'll hang it over a kitchen chair to dry out. I'm sure I have one of your sweaters here."

When McCall came from the guest room, carrying the aran knit sweater, he found that Mickey had kicked off his boots and was lying on the couch. His eyes were closed but when McCall stood over him, giving him his best "Equalizer" glare, Mickey opened his eyes.

"I like your couch." He said to McCall's unasked question.

"You are aware that I have a perfectly serviceable guest room just down the hall."

A moment passed.

"I like your couch." Mickey repeated.

McCall tried to maintain the glare and turned away before he allowed himself a smile. As an opponent in battle, Mickey was a hard-nosed, single-minded, detached adversary. As a friend, as a _sick_ friend, he could be as inveigling as Scott ever was growing up.

"I'll get you a blanket."

By the time he came back, Mickey was asleep.

Mickey woke up, still on the couch. He was covered with a blanket, and a glass of water stood nearby on a coaster on the coffee table. The apartment was dim except for a fire in the fireplace and a light in the kitchen. His headache had slipped from behind his eyes to the base of his skull but it was manageable. McCall was nowhere to be seen as he pushed himself up to reach for the water. He thought a couple of hours must've passed since he first laid down.

When the phone rang, McCall came out of the guest room to answer it. He had been tidying it up a bit because if Mickey were ill he _would_ stay the night, and he _would_ sleep in a bed. A quick glance in the direction of the couch showed Mickey still lying under the blanket, but his eyes were open now and most of the water was gone. If he was awake, he could eat some lunch.

"McCall." He answered the phone.

"Robert, it's me." Control said. "Have you heard from Mickey? He was supposed to be back today but he hasn't checked in."

"He's here. I picked him up at the airport a few hours ago."

"How is he?"

"Well I think he might be coming down with a cold but -."

"Not his _physical_ health McCall." Control interrupted. "How's he handling it?"

"Handling _what_?" McCall kept his voice neutral but he turned to look at Mickey again.

"He hasn't told you what happened in Honduras?"

"Actually -." McCall raised his voice enough to be heard from the kitchen to the couch. If whatever happened was bad enough to make Control worry about Kostmayer's state of mind, it was bad. " – I believe Mickey was just about to tell me exactly what happened in Honduras."

McCall watched for Mickey's reaction. He didn't squeeze his eyes shut or pull the blanket over his head in mock fear. He lay very still, staring up at the ceiling. This was _quite_ bad.

"He's here and he's resting." McCall told Control, his voice quiet now. "He'll be in touch with you tomorrow."

He hung up the phone and turned to stir the pot of soup simmering on the stove. He checked the bread warming in the oven and finally started a pot of coffee. He heard Mickey get up from the couch and make his way to the kitchen.

"I thought you wanted to be told about Honduras." He said quietly. He stood at the chair that held his jacket, his hands resting on the still damp fabric. He had pulled on the sweater.

"I decided that what you need most is some food inside of you. Then, if you're up to talking about it, I have a bottle of very fine Irish whiskey that Pete gave me, which ought to go nicely with the coffee." McCall looked at Mickey who was looking down at his hands. "_If_ you're up to talking about it."

Mickey took a deep sigh and sat down in the chair.

"We killed a priest," he said.

McCall turned off the soup, brought the bread out of the oven, and took the chair opposite Mickey at the table.

"What was the job?"

"Remember Bisuecos? Jorge Bisuecos? Had his own mini-dictatorship over a squad of guerillas down near the Pacific coast?" Mickey bent his attention down to pushing the sleeve of his sweater back off his hand. He was oddly aware that the apartment was quiet. Even their voices seemed muted, absorbed into their surroundings instead of echoing off of them.

"I remember him distinctly." McCall said, with cold distaste. "I had hoped by this time he would've been taken care of."

"He musta had his hand in somebody's pocket to have gone on this long. I swear he must be ninety years old." Mickey agreed. "There was finally a plan to take him out. His raids and his executions were jeopardizing some – something – with Nicaragua. I don't remember." He rubbed his eyes, maybe he _was_ getting a cold.

If this was Control he was talking to, there wouldn't be time to take a minute, catch his breath, sort his thoughts. He'd have to give the whole story, first to last, in exact detail. Then go over it again. Then again. What happened, why it happened, how to keep it from happening again

Talking with McCall was – better. He'd listen, he'd wait, he'd care. That was better.

"Anyway, we took about four weeks planning the operation, then right at the last minute, we found out they'd abducted a family from Chile who were visiting some Mayan ruins there, and were holding them for ransom. I started changing plans, go for a search and rescue first, instead of search and destroy. But _Ernesto_ said they'd have to be collateral damage. A whole family. You believe it? Two parents, their daughter and her husband, and -."

"And their son, a priest?" McCall supplied when Mickey didn't finish.

"Yeah." Remembering it, Mickey didn't think he could continue the tale. "Um – so what's for lunch?"

"Your favorite."

"Dill pickle soup? Great."

His enthusiastic answer briefly stopped McCall as he stood from the table.

"All right, your second favorite. Chicken with rice."

"And -?" Mickey prompted.

"_And alphabet noodles._" McCall said, as though the mere words were distasteful, but he tempered it with a smile as he started to get out bowls and spoons.

"Let me help you set the table."

"Sit, before you fall."

So Mickey sat again and watched McCall serve lunch.

McCall knew Mickey hated to be waited on, but he was quite probably too unsteady at the moment to carry a soup spoon much less a full soup bowl. He set the bowl and spoon in front of Mickey then gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Mickey gave him a wan but appreciative smile and began to eat.

After the first swallow though, he said unexpectedly,

"Apparently I'm hard to get along with."

At any other time, McCall would've answered with a facetious "No!" but not now. He sat back in the chair.

"Given my own propensity to ill-humor, I believe it stands to reason that if _I_ can get along with you, you are not hard to get along with."

Mickey only shrugged and kept eating his soup.

"If you are referring to any altercation with Ernesto, I wouldn't trouble myself Mickey. Mother Teresa herself couldn't find anything good to say about that man."

"She'd probably give it a better try than I did. We had pretty much a three day shouting match. All we knew at first was that it was a family, parents and kids, and where they were being held. We already had the layout of the building, it wouldn't have been much to go in, extract the family, and still complete the original mission. But Ernesto didn't want to hear about it. He just wanted the mission over and done with and me out of his hair, even if it cost that family their lives.

"Finally, the higher ups agreed with me and that ticked him off but good. But we did it, we got 'em out. They'd been through hell but they'd held on and we got 'em out while the rest of the team grabbed Bisuecos and hustled him off someplace nasty. After that we still had a good three hour walk to the nearest landing spot for the family to get picked up and taken to safety.

"They had to stop though, the parents, they'd been through hell, they needed to rest every mile or so. We got into another shouting match and the priest, the son, got between us and was saying – he could speak English – saying how grateful he was that we'd saved his family and how every kindness from us was a blessing from God."

He stopped there, staring down at the bowl of soup.

"Surely -." McCall started.

"No – no, it didn't happen then." Mickey said. He looked up at McCall. "Ernesto got his point that 'every kindness' meant letting his folks rest when they needed it. He didn't like it, but he doesn't like anything, so I didn't think anything about it. It was slow going but we had plenty of daylight and no reason to hurry now that Bisuecos was under lock and key.

"Then, when were about a mile from the landing site, two of Bisueco's guerillas overran our position. Our guys took out the first one but the second man they only wounded. Bad, but he was alive. Ernesto said to leave him but the priest went to take care of him. He started tearing up his shirt for bandages to stop the bleeding, asking if we had a first aid kit, telling his Dad and brother in law to look for something to make a stretcher so we could take him to the plane.

"Ernesto starts yelling that we aren't taking him and the priest acts like he doesn't hear him, he keeps on taking care of him. This was one of the men who abducted his family and threatened them with death and he was trying to save his life."

Mickey's gaze fell down to the table again.

"I should've moved faster. I should've been able to save him."

"What happened?"

"He shot him. Ernesto shot him. He got so angry that he shoved the priest away from the guy and raised his weapon. I was too far away to get to him in time. Just as he fired, the priest threw himself over the guerilla and Ernesto shot him. He died right there."

Mickey's voice was flat and faraway as he finished the story, not looking at McCall, not really looking at anything at all. McCall knew that – like all good agents – Mickey had learned to regulate his feelings regarding missions; apathy made you sloppy, passion got you killed, but he also knew that seven weeks with Ernesto would be enough to drive a saint to drink. Add to that the completely unnecessary killing of an innocent man under his protection and McCall understood why Mickey was in such a despondent state.

Then Mickey said something else.

"I don't think he was even as old as Nick."

And McCall saw that maybe Mickey's feelings were coming from an entirely different direction.

"Mickey -."

"I mean – he's my kid brother." Mickey went on, not even noticing the interruption. "I always took care of him. Okay, I admit, when we were younger I always thought he was kind of a doofus, but still he was my brother. Anybody ever touched him never touched him a second time. I always took care of him.

"Lately I've been seeing him differently though. He's tough, he's strong. You think about what he does, everyday in that neighborhood of his, no guns, no back up, only his brains and his faith - he's one of the bravest people I know. What that priest did down in Honduras, I know Nick would've done the exact same thing. It started me thinking about him."

Mickey wasn't exactly sure how he'd gotten to Nick from Honduras; he hadn't meant to bring him into the discussion. He'd meant to get McCall's opinion that giving Ernesto two black eyes and a ringing concussion with the butt of his rifle was the right thing to do. Where did Nick come from?

"I'm sure he's all right Mickey. If you want to call him or drive over to the church -."

Mickey had to bring himself back to the conversation.

"What? No. No, that's OK. He's in Rome anyway. Meeting the Pope." He said that with some pride. "Our great-aunt Ewa was the Pope's babysitter when he was little. Or she knew his babysitter. Or she _had_ a babysitter, I don't know. But Nick's over there now. No, I'm not – I mean I _do_ worry about him but – it just hit me how Nick must feel -." Mickey looked up at McCall with an almost puzzled look on his face. " – when he doesn't know where I am.

"I mean – I always figured he worried in a kind of abstract way but – then it hit me that maybe he feels the same I do when he tells me about the tenements he's gone to and the old warehouses and the back alleys when somebody needs his help."

"Of course he worries about you. How could he not? You're his brother, he loves you."

"I don't know. I don't know why it only just occurred to me, I don't know why it never occurred to me before. I don't know why I'm thinking about it now." He shook his head. The headache had migrated back to the top of his skull. "I'm gonna lay down again for awhile, okay? I think you jinxed me with a cold."

He stood up from the table, feeling feverish, achy, and a hundred years old.

"Maybe you should call Nick anyway, let him know you're home safe and sound."

"Sure. You wouldn't happen to have the Pope's direct number would you?"

When McCall didn't answer right away, Mickey turned back to him.

"McCall? Something you'd like to tell me?"

"Well…" But McCall smiled that he was joking. "Not the direct line maybe, but I'm sure I know someone who knows someone who can get a message to Nick in Rome. All of my acquaintances are not nefarious."

"Thanks McCall. I appreciate it." He made his way to the couch and picked up the blanket, preparing to lay down again.

"Really Mickey, I do wish you'd sleep in the guest room." McCall came out of the kitchen, heading for the bedroom hallway. "You're not feeling well, you'd be more comfortable in the bed."

"You know why I like your couch?" Mickey asked. Out of the kitchen, the rest of the apartment was cast in dull grays. McCall stopped to listen.

"When I was growing up, we could only stay up late when it wasn't a school night, or if there was enough snow falling that we knew school would be closed the next day. Saturday nights me and Nick would stay up to watch the late late show, and if we were really lucky there'd be a double feature movie, and I'd fall asleep on the couch. Or if I was sick and home from school, Mom would let me sleep on the couch while she did her housework. Sometimes when I fell asleep on the couch when Mom and Dad were out, I'd wake up with Dad's coat over me like a blanket.

"I like sleeping on your couch because sleeping on a couch means that there's nothing to worry about, there's nothing more I have to do right then. If I can sleep on a couch then wherever I am, I'm safe, I belong."

From very early in their relationship, McCall realized that Mickey let his guard down around him more than around anyone else, but that as much as he might let it down, there were volumes more he kept hidden away. What he said just now made McCall feel as though he'd been allowed to see Mickey's soul laid open. He was humbled by the trust and couldn't find anything to say.

Mickey only heard the silence and he took it for disapproval. He bundled the blanket into his arms.

"I'll sleep in the guest room," he said.

"Then, my dear boy, just for you I shall have my couch removed to the guest room."

It took a moment for this to process through Mickey's mind. Finally he got it.

"Thanks Robert," he said, and laid down on the couch.

The End.


	2. Phone Calls and Kid Brothers

On the dim reaches of wakefulness, Mickey heard a phone ring, then a hand on his shoulder shook him fully awake and McCall was saying,

"Mickey – phone call."

Groggy, and not immediately remembering where he was or why, Mickey pushed himself to sitting upright with his feet on the floor and took the phone. The blanket tangled around him.

"Hello?"

"Mickey? What's going on?" Nick's voice brought Mickey fully awake. He sounded distressed.

"Nick? Where are you? Are you all right?" He looked around. Outside the apartment windows the daylight was rapidly fading; it had to be after five pm.

"I'm fine, I'm in Rome. What's going on?"

The memories opened full bloom in Mickey's brain. He tried to push them away.

"What makes you think anything's going on?"

"Because of the seven levels of Church hierarchy Mr. McCall had to navigate to have this phone call put through to me. You know I left the phone number of our hotel on your answering machine."

"I just got in today. I haven't been home yet."

"What happened? What's wrong?"

"Did you meet the Pope yet?" Mickey asked, trying to redirect Nick's train of thought. He looked around the apartment to glare at McCall for worrying Nick, but he wasn't to be seen.

"Tomorrow, after First Friday Mass. Are you okay?" But Mickey couldn't answer. Maybe he didn't want to. "Mickey – did you just wake up?"

"Yeah. I'm sleeping on McCall's couch."

"Are you okay?"

And again Mickey couldn't answer.

"Do you want me to come home?"

"You haven't met the Pope yet."

"I'm sure he'll survive his disappointment." Nick said, and the remark made Mickey laugh out loud.

"Aunt Ewa would never forgive you."

"Are you kidding? She _has_ met him. She already made friends with every nun in the Vatican; I wouldn't be surprised if she had tea with His Holiness the day we arrived."

They both laughed and then there was silence and then Nick asked again,

"Are you okay?"

"I'm alive." Mickey said after a short consideration.

"Always the best answer."

"I was in Honduras. We tried to save a family that was being held for ransom by some guerillas. We didn't save all of them." And Mickey heard Nick whisper something in Latin, probably a blessing for the dead. "He was a priest, the son was a priest and he died trying to save the life of one of the men who took them hostage."

"What was his name?"

"What?"

"What was his name?"

"Why? You don't think you knew him?"

"No, but I'd like to say a Mass for him."

"You didn't know him." Mickey said. He tugged the blanket out from under his leg to pull across his lap; he felt cold.

"_You_ knew him." Nick pointed out. "And besides, a priest giving his life for his enemy - there are people here who'll want to know who he was and what happened."

"Oh, okay, yeah. His name was Roberto. Roberto Martínez de Banegas. He was - I'm pretty sure he said he was an Oblate of Mary Immaculate."

"Okay, thanks."

"Nick?"

"Yeah?"

"Promise me you'll never do anything stupid."

"You mean you don't want me sliding down the banister at the rectory anymore?"

"_Promise me you'll never do anything stupid_."

"I promise Mickey, I'll never do anything stupid."

But having a lifetime of knowing his brother, and being adept at the fine art of verbal hedging himself, Mickey rephrased the question.

"Promise me you'll never do anything that _I_ would think is stupid."

"As long as you promise me the exact same thing."

"Sure, I promise not to do anything I think is stupid." Mickey smiled because even over the phone, he could see the look Nick was giving him.

"And you don't think mocking me is stupid?" Nick asked, trying but not succeeding at sounding completely stern.

"What's the worst you could do to me?"

The briefest moment of hesitation preceded Nick's solemn answer:

"I could ask His Holiness to pray for you."

"Great, first the fall of Communism then the Berlin Wall. You have the Pope pray for me and by this time next week I'll be applying to the seminary and taking a vow of silence."

"Worse things could happen." Nick said.

"Yes they could." Mickey answered gravely. "_Promise me_."

"Do you think what that priest did was stupid, Mickey?"

Mickey didn't want to answer that because he didn't want to tell the truth, and for everything else wrong he may have ever done in his adult life, he'd never lied to Nick.

"I think – no. He was – who he was. It would be stupid to try to be anybody else."

"Then I promise you I will always be myself, Mickey."

"Even when you meet the Pope?"

"Well, we'll have to see. Who knows, blithering idiot might be who I really am."

"Nick?"

"Yeah?"

When Mickey couldn't say anything, Nick filled the silence.

"You too Mickey."

"Yeah. I should let you go, hunh? It must be late there. You want to be wide awake when you meet John Paul."

"Are you okay Mickey?"

"I'm better now. Send me a postcard, will you?"

"I'll bring you a holy card."

"No, postcard's fine." Mickey answered too fast. "Really."

"All right, no holy card. I'll tell Aunt Ewa you said hello. Take care of yourself Mickey."

"I will. You too."

Mickey hung up the phone and laid his head against the back of the couch. In a few moments McCall reappeared from the bedroom hallway.

"Having kid brothers is not easy." Mickey said.

"Nor is having big brothers a simple matter I gather."

"Me? I'm as simple as the day is long."

A look from McCall toward the window reminded Mickey how short the days were.

"Point taken."

"Dinner will be ready in three quarters of an hour. There are clean clothes waiting for you in the spare room if you'd like to take a shower in the meantime."

"Thanks." Mickey stood up, still having to untangle himself from the blanket. As he walked past, he let his hand rest for a few moments on the telephone.

The end.


End file.
